Cheater, Cheater
by Kaede-tama
Summary: Matthew's sick of playing the nice guy. Past PruCan, USCan


**Cheater, Cheater**

Canadians are known to be nice - all right, I'll give you that. As Matthew Williams, representative of said country, I suppose I know best of what my people are like. I understand - I mean, I'm nice, if I may say so myself. Or, I _try_ to be nice, because that's what Papa taught me when I was little, and Papa is always right.

Had I listened to him this one time, maybe the current situation would be different. I probably wouldn't be sitting here, writing this silly little letter to you. "He's no good for you," he told me. "I'd rather you go after that Jones boy rather than an arrogant loudmouth."

Every person has flaws, though, and you were mine. I think I fell in love the moment I saw you, despite the fact that I've always found love at first sight to be a myth. But I fell in love, and I fell hard. I began to find myself fantasizing about weddings: Black tuxes, white dresses. I realized that I'd wear a dress if it would make you happy. But I'm getting off topic now. I'm not writing this to tell about what our relationship was. I'm writing to tell about what our relationship currently _is._

Can you figure out what I'm getting at, Gil?

"Knowing is only half of the battle," someone once said. And so I made sure you knew. I sent you flowers(picked from our very own garden in the backyard) every day and then - when I finally gathered enough courage to - I walked up to you after class and confessed.

You had looked so surprised. And at the same time, I think you looked happy at my confession.

Or maybe you were just glad to have found another toy to play with.

Under different circumstances, I think I might have easily forgiven my first heart breaker. But don't you get it, Gilbert? I _loved_ you. I loved you so much and I thought that you loved me back too until I saw you with him.

Right underneath that willow tree (_our_ tree, you bastard, the one where we made love underneath. Do you remember? _Do you remember?_) - did you think that I wouldn't see? That I would be too preoccupied with my book to glance outside the library's windows?

Earlier in my discovery, I felt confused. I felt hurt, I felt sad, and most of all, I felt lost. What had I done? Knowing is only half of the battle, and the other half is doing it. I loved, I gave, I _did._ Was I - _am I_ - not enough? I was still standing there when suddenly, there was a hand on my shoulder.

"Mattie?" It was Alfred. (_You remember him, right?_) He looked past me and must have seen you with _him_ because he frowned, putting two and two together. "Let's go," he told me, taking my hand. "You don't need him."

And would you like to know how I felt at that? When he held my hand, my heart soared. When he looked at me, I felt warm all over. I wasn't sure how I noticed it before, how he made me feel so much more than you ever made me feel. I suppose it was because you never did that - never held my hand, never looked at me the way he did.

I kissed him last night. And do you want to know something? I don't regret a single thing. Maybe you and I could have been something great - but you found Roderich; I've found Alfred. I'm not quite sure how else to explain it, but then again, I don't suppose you have a better elaboration. And on that note, let me end this with one last thing: I got Arthur to snap a quick picture earlier. I'd love to see your perpetually confused face as you search for it, but then it would take forever until you finally figure it out. Here's a hint: Think acrostic.

Love what used to be yours,  
>Matthew Williams.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

www (dot) deviantart (dot) com/download/198563603/aph_like_we_need_your_approval_by_hetalia_canada_dj-d3a7wnn (dot) jpg

^Replace the (dot)s with periods. :3

The author is tired and this is officially being posted at twelve am. I'm editing in the morning, so please ignore any mistakes for the time being. =3=

I just really wanted to write something like this.

I hope you guys can figure it out, lol.


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